


Christopher Weston Chandler & Magi-chan's Stone

by Garfieldfan1



Series: Christian Potter Chandler [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sonichu (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Canon Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garfieldfan1/pseuds/Garfieldfan1
Summary: You might know about Chris-chan. You might also know he hates Harry Potter for supposedly being a direct competitor to Pokemon. But what would happen if everyone's favorite lolcow was transplanted into the world of Harry Potter? To find out, I decided to rewrite Harry Potter & the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone with the Chandlers replacing Harry and his family to see just how it would affect the story.





	1. The Boy Who Bob Hoped Wouldn't Live

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: The plot isn't meant to be taken particularly seriously here. The main objective is to see exactly what Christian Weston Chandler would do in the world of Harry Potter. I've taken some liberties (e.g. at the ages when Chris would be eligible for Hogwarts IRL he was moving around Richmond, while here he's never left Ruckersville) but the only plot derailing will be by Chris. And if the real Chris does stumble upon this, then this work is Not intended to be Inflammatory, and any Derogatory-sounding content is Comical Exaggeration or otherwise the Good Kind Of Parody. The use of MALE Pronouns and Names for Chris is purely because Chris still Identified as a STRAIGHT MALE at the ages Depicted within this Story.

Bob Chandler and Barb Weston Chandler, of 14 Branchland Court, were proud to say that they never had a son that wasn't perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Bob was a retired engineer, and without him the NES might not have come so soon. He was an old-fashioned man, and he was very outspoken. Barbara was large, enough to conceal her neck, but that didn't stop her from craning over garden fences to spy on the neighbors. Barb had a son called Cole, but he had moved out quickly after he fell off a bus and sustained mild brain damage, which he took out on Barb.

The Chandlers had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about Christopher.

Christopher was Borb's other son, but they didn't want people to know he was spawned from their loins. in fact, Borb pretended they didn't have a son when they were out without him, because he was a shame upon the Chandler and Weston names. The Chandlers shuddered to think what the citizens of Ruckersville would say if they ever found out Christopher was their son.

When Borb woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the world. Bob sighed as he rooted through Christopher's games for his keys and Barb gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Christopher out of his favorite shirt, which had godawful horizontal rainbow stripes, to wash it.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Bob grabbed his wallet, pecked Barb on the cheek, and tried to kiss Christopher good-bye but missed, because Christopher was now having a tantrum and throwing his shoes at the walls. "Little shit... and little wonder the school board hates him. I'll make a man of him someday," mumbled Bob as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number 14's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- an unfamiliar cat reading a map. For a second, Bob didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Branchland Court, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been all the stress from Christopher's latest stunt -- since last December, after the mall conductor bear mistook his name for one from his native England, Christopher had been constantly nagging him and Barbara to change his name to Christian. Bob blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Bob drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Branchland Court -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Bob gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except his favorite meal; it was far easier to forget his family that way.

But on the edge of town, breakfast was driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Bob couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- it reminded him of his own son. He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Bob was bewildered to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! What grown man would wear such ridiculous clothing? But then it struck Bob that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Bob pulled into the Burger King parking lot, ordered a meal and sat down in his favorite seat.

Bob always stopped at Burger King for his morning meal. It helped him escape his miserable son and manipulative bitch of a wife. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people outside did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Bob, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He made some calls to the electric company in his car after finishing, and went to his favorite diner, where he'd scheduled a small get-together and, most importantly, he wasn't going to be the one paying. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd pick up some McDonalds on the way home for Barb and Christopher.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them in the McDonalds parking lot. He eyed them angrily as he pulled into the drive-through. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a four-person meal in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Chandlers, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Christopher"

Bob stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back to his car, seized his cell phone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Christopher was a fucking nightmare. If those strange people were plotting his kidnapping, he and Barb could finally have some peace. In that case, he'd never heard of a boy called Christopher. Or Christian. Or any boy called Weston, Chandler, or Weston Chandler. There was no good in telling Barb; she was almost as bad as Christopher. He didn't blame Cole for hating her -- if he'd had a mother like that... either way, those people in cloaks were suspicious...

He found it a lot harder to relax that afternoon and when he went for a walk at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the corner store.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Bob realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even No-Majes like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Bob around the middle and walked off.

Bob stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a No-Maj, whatever that was. He was getting a little worried. Even Christopher and Barb didn't deserve to be kidnapped by these weirdos; especially since it might have meant Christopher wouldn't grow into a mature, well-adjusted adult with a steady job and relationship and a paid-off mortgage. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he was getting pretty damn sick of his own son's imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number 14, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Bob loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. This wasn't normal cat behavior, Bob thought. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Barb and Christopher had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter. He told him about how he got beaten up worse than usual at school the previous morning, yet was left well alone that day. Bob noticed something.

"Boy, what the hell is going on with your eyes?" Bob asked, pointing at Christopher's right eye, which had a strange greenish tint, barely noticable but distinct from his typically blue eyes.

"Well... At school, I... They..." Christopher burst into tears.

When Barb had consoled Christopher and put him to bed, Bob went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers all around, from Ruckersville to Charlottesville to Richmond, have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! I guess people are still celebrating Valentine's Day -- Maybe their beds wore out and they still aren't sated, so they're taking their energy to fireworks displays! Crazy, but so are recent events. But I can promise a wet night tonight... Maybe in more ways than one, if I'm right."

Bob sat frozen in his armchair at the horrific breach of TV conduct as the weatherman was dragged off the set. Shooting stars all over Virginia? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? Odd enough, but there was the whisper, the whisper about Christopher...

Barb came into the living room carrying a can of Fanta. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Barbara, dear -- you don't happen to know if anything different's been going on with Christopher, do you?"

As he had expected, Barb looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended Christopher wasn't theirs.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Bob mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Barb.

Barb slurped some Fanta. Bob wondered whether he ought to tell her he'd heard the name "Chandler." He decided he ought to. He took a deep breath and said,

"Those people around town... They were talking about our son. About Christopher."

Barb dropped the can. "Are you sure?"

"Well... there IS a reason we go out pretending to not know him."

"I guess you're right," said Barb, before ducking into the kitchen to grab a fresh can. "Maybe that damned principal resigned because of what he did to Christopher."

"Sounds about right," said Bob, his heart leaping at his wife's lack of suspicion. "Yes, I don't doubt that."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Barb was in the bathroom, Bob crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Branchland Court as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with those people that might be coming for Christopher? If it did, he'd finally be rid of him, but... if it got out that they were related to such a ridiculous child -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Chandlers got into bed. Snorlax fell asleep quickly but Bob lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that by the time he awoke, he may very well have less annoyance in his life.

If only he realized just how horribly right this would go.

Bob might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Branchland Court. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Fortunately for him, Branchland Court was no stranger to such oddity as himself. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore seemed to almost be counting his blessings that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was relatively tame compared to the residents. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even that stubbornly nosey Barbara Chandler, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number 14, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Chandlers' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars over Richmond -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying things like 'You-Know-Who' or even 'Volxemort'. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer, in a manner reminiscent of the boy who lived inside 14 Branchland Court.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that Monday morning Volxe- ah, Voldemort turned up at a school. He went to find the boy there we've been scouting. The rumor is that he's the one who killed Voldemort."

Dumbledore nodded. Professor McGonagall slumped against a fence.

"After all that... Voldemort was killed by a prepubescent boy? A prepubescent, MUGGLE-BORN boy? I mean, without even knowing he was a wizard?"

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall sat down in an attempt to control her shock. "...He couldn't kill that little boy. They're saying that when he couldn't kill Christopher Weston Chandler, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded again.

"After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy... It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Christopher survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Dumbledore took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you where Christopher lives, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I suppose you're here for the same reason that I am?"

"I'm surprised there aren't more wizards on his doorstep, really."

"But how do you intend to get this boy to come with you?" asked Professor McGonagall, rising to her feet and pointing at number 14. "The answer is -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find a worse family. The father hates the boy and his mother, the mother is hardly any better, and they've got another son-"

"Yes, but he won't be a problem. He's moved out before we started scouting the boy," said Dumbledore.

"No, their third son -- A younger brother, perhaps -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. How do you think we'll get a boy from this family to come with us?!"

"That would be Christopher," Dumbledore explained.

"That's Christopher?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down. "This boy is the one who killed Volsemort? The autistic boy that wears godawful shirts, stuffs his face constantly and tried to grab a woman's breast at McDonalds, where he eats almost every meal! This boy will grow up to be an international laughingstock, I'm sure! This boy killed the man whose name is feared across the wizarding world?"

"That's Christopher," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "And I'll have you know present character is no indication of future character. I'm sure he will learn eventually. After all, he killed Voldemort, he cannot possibly be evil."

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But what is your plan to transport him to school, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be planning on swishing it over Christopher and making him disappear like a Muggle "magician" would.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. What's the plan for bringing in the boy, sir?"

"We're going to try a letter first. If that doesn't work, you can tell them in person."

"A letter, sir? Wouldn't it just be easier to tell them in person as plan A?"

"Easier, yes. But it would also be highly conspicuous. This is a nosey neighborhood, and the neighbors will almost definitely hear if we're not careful."

"Alright. Can I get a picture of him then?"

"Here," said Dumbledore, handing Hagrid a photograph of Christopher. Hagrid stared at the picture for the longest time before he figured out why.

"Look at that, his eyes are a little different from each other."

Professor McGonagall leaned over to look. "I could've sworn his eyes were both the same when I was posing as a substitute teacher last Friday," she whispered.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "But that seems to be the mark Voldemort gave him when he died. It'll be that way forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. These permanent marks can come in handy. I have a scar above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground and I've known a man with a pimple that disspelled tracking magic, and his son had a scar that hurt when evil was near."

"Wait just a minute, sir," Hagrid interrupted, "I've been meanin' to ask -- Why the hell are we taking in a yankee? Ilvermony won't be happy about this."

"They've been having financial troubles as of late," replied Dumbledore, "And either way, why wouldn't we want Voldemort's killer?"

"But why would Voldemort want to kill him in the first place?"

"I'm sure you’ll figure it out in good time. So, we've a plan, and no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir." Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I'd wager he'd been waiting for an excuse to ride that bike for quite awhile," said Dumbledore with a chuckle.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Branchland Court glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. "Good luck, Christopher," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Branchland Court, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Christopher Weston Chandler turned inside his blankets without falling asleep. He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country, who clearly never met him, were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Christopher Weston Chandler -- the boy who lived!"


	2. The Vanishing Family Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barb, noting a thrift shop, and a zoo beyond it, gets Bob to take Chris to the zoo, hoping they can make a pit stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I have a TVTropes page! tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/FanFic/ChristianPotterChandler

The following morning, the sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number 14 on the Chandlers' front door; it crept into their living room, which was only slightly more cluttered than when Bob noticed the difference in Chris's eyes. It was five minutes until school was to begin, yet Chris was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Barb was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Christopher! Up! Get up! Now!"

Chris woke with a start. His mom rapped on the door again.

"It's CHRISTIAN!" he screeched. Chris heard her walking toward the kitchen, knocking over several piles of junk on the way, and then the hum of the microwave. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

His mother was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

Chris groaned.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, y'hear?"

Chris groaned louder. "Get her. Sonichu," he mumbled.

"What did you say?" his mom snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Another school day; in other words, another day of hell. Chris oozed out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after using a pencil to wipe navy off one of them, put them on. Chris was used to navy-crusted socks, because a 10-year-old had no other sexual outlet that "can't pass off as an accident"-level of satisfying. He'd already pledged not to ever tell anyone he mass debated before the age of 16.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all the Chandlers' junk and food. It looked as though Barb had made an early-morning trip to the thrift shop. 

Just then, Barb wheeled in a kid's bicycle. "Enjoy, kid," she said, and left without another word.

Exactly what Barb expected Chris to do with a bicycle was a mystery to him, as he was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it was strictly exercising his wrist. Perhaps it had something to do with living behind several layers of thrift store junk, but Chris had always been able to get in a quick stroke whenever he pleased. He was so good at danger wanking it's a wonder his right hand is as limp and weak as his left. Chris had a plump face, lanky limbs, greasy black hair, and wide-set eyes. Out of the house (which was rare), he wore aviator glasses held together with a lot of Crayola Model Magic because of all the times he'd dramatically thrown them to the ground, suspended from his neck with a string rarely seen attached to the glasses of a non-seinor citizen. Despite all this, there was nothing he didn't love about his own appearance.

Bob entered the kitchen as Chris was reaching for the bacon.

"It's gonna burn ya, dumbass!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once an hour, Bob had to yell at Chris to stop him from doing something that dangerous or more. Chris had been called a dumbass more than everyone in the local child abuse support group combined, but it made no difference, he was just too aggressively idiotic to change his behavior.

Chris was frying eggs by the time Barb arrived in the kitchen. In her occasional moments of affection, Barb said that Chris looked like a baby angel -- however, Chris looked more like a pig in a soaking-wet wig than anything coming from the clouds.

Chris put the plates of bacon and eggs on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Barb, meanwhile, was going through her hoard.

"Christopher, when's your birthday again?" she asked, discreetly tucking a $5 video game gift card under several copies of the same cookbook.

"IT'S CHRISTIAN! My birthday's tomorrow, Mom."

Bob, who could see a typical Chris mega-meltdown coming on, ran into the kitchen to get his keys so he wouldn't be there if Chris tried to flip the table. Barb obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,  
"Okay, okay... Christian... I'm sorry for forgetting. Here, how about if Daddy takes you to the zoo? Will that make it up to you?'

"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST TELL THAT BOY, BARBARA?!" Bob yelled, racing back in.

"Well, now we have to take him," Barb replied, "Look here, he's so excited, you'll upset him so much if we go back on our word." Chris was trying to jam the Sonic & Knuckles lock-on cartridge onto Sonic CD. "And besides, there's a few thrift shops that have some really nice things in the windows on the way there..." Barb gave Bob puppy-dog eyes.

"This little shit tried to cop a feel of some lady just the other day and you want to TAKE HIM TO THE ZOO?! Are you TRYING to make this kid grow up and molest people? You're probably already teaching him that no means yes, that silence is consent and that if she doesn't run away screaming, that's a free ticket into her pants!"

"But look at him! He's already getting his jacket on!" Chris had taken off his pants and was using them to try and wipe grease off of his favorite copy of Sonic CD, only succeeding in applying more to it.

"BARB, ARE YOU FUCKING DENSER THAN YOUR SON?!"

"Now look, you've made him cry!" Chris had taken his shirt and underwear off and had just dug up some clothing he preferred -- a matching orange/green/yellow diagonal-striped shirt/underwear set. Barb shuffled backwards and flicked her heel up between Chris's legs, and he immediately began wailing.

"Oh, Christian, don't cry, Mommy won't let him spoil your zoo trip!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"SONICHU, HELP!" Chris screamed.

Just then, the doorbell rang -- "Oh assfucking dickmonkeys, they're here!" said Barb frantically -- and a moment later, the door was kicked in by a paramedic and a CPS worker.

"Oh, thank the lord you came!" cried Bob, dragging Chris to them and attempting to hand him over, "My wife's been kicking my son in the balls! I ain't able to take care of him on my own on account of he keeps running around getting into trouble and I can't stand up for more than a little while or my legs give out, so it looks like you'll have to take the both of them away!"

"Bob, honey, come back here and take your dementia pills," said Barb, quickly pulling some Tic Tacs out of her pocket. Bob glared furiously at her.

"Oh, uh, sorry to bother you, ma'am, it sounded like child abuse in there," said the CPS worker as he and the paramedic left.

Half an hour of screaming later, Chris, naturally taking all this for granted, was sitting in the back of the Chandlers' Seville and, having finished the stop at the thrift shop, was now on the way to the zoo. Bob addressed Chris aside.

"I'm warning you," he said, putting his face right up close to Chris's, "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny business, anything at all -- and I'll lock you in the cupboard from now until Christmas."

"But Daaaaa-aaaaad!" Chris protested.

Bob sighed. "Just be good," he grumbled.

Chris and Bob stared out into the rain. It was raining hard, just like on the morning that Voldmort attacked Chris. Bob didn't care. What he cared about was that Chris was being rewarded for a history of poor behavior. Once, Chris ate half the candy section at the convenience store. Instead of stopping him and paying for what he ate, Barb waited patiently for him to finish, then paid for them and gas and bought the rest to take home for later.

Another time, Chris decided to pour a jarful of Nutella into his underwear, wear the underwear to school, then rip off his pants and underwear in class and slip it onto the teacher's head. Bob and Barb were called in and words were had. Where did Chris spend his suspension? Disneyland. Bob refused to go in protest.

He'd also narrowly avoided serious trouble when he jogged into a strip club and attempted to backflip off of the stage, landing face-first in a stripper's boobs. Bob burst in as he was doing this and began scolding him when Barb entered.

"BOB! What're you doing to Christopher?!" Barb screeched.

"He's went and moonsaulted into a pair of tits!"

"That's ridiculous, there's no way little Christopher would go and do that."

Barb ended up taking Chris to buy a copy of Pokemon Yellow. Bob responded by calling a gang of male strippers to 14BC and then telling CPS Barb did it. Barb was able to talk them all into thinking the strippers got a prank call from some rowdy teen.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. Bob would discipline Chris well if something did.

While he drove, Bob complained to Barb. He liked to complain about things: Chris, children, Chris, teens, Chris, young adults, Chris, Cole, Chris, the council, Chris, the bank, and Chris were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, those damned whippersnappers," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Chris, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Barb nearly crashed into the car in front. She turned right around in her seat and yelled at Chris. her face like a beet: "YOU SHUT THE HELL UP NOW, CHRIS! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GOTTA GET INVOLVED IN EVERYTHING?!"

"BARB!" Bob snapped.

"Whose side are you on?!" Barb retorted, "Not too long ago, you were trying to get Child Protection to take him!"

"Whose side are YOU ON?! Not too long ago, he ate fifty candy bars without paying and you just waited for him to finish!" Barb didn't other replying to this.

It was still quite a rainy Tuesday when they arrived and the zoo was crowded with families. Barb made Bob buy Chris and herself three large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then when he asked for more they just bought the whole tub. Bob contemplated a double murder-suicide as Chris and Barb watched a gorilla scratching its head who had a physique remarkably like Chris's, except that it had far superior hygiene.

This was about average a morning for Chris. He was careful to put Bob between himself and Barb so that Barb wouldn't fall back on her favorite hobby of hitting him to get Bob to buy her things. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Chris had a tantrum because his quinseptuple-fudge ubersize sundae was too small, Barb pestered Bob into buying another.

Bob was anxious for the sweet release of death.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Barb wanted to show huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons; she could extort more money from Bob and affection from Chris if Chris was shitting himself from fear. She quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around the Chandlers' car and crushed it into a trash can -- but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Chris stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring blankly at the glistening brown coils and licking his ice cream.

"Make it move," he whined at his mother. Barb tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Looks like it's already had its fix of children for a few minutes," Barb commented.

"Do it again," Chris ordered. Barb rapped the glass smartly with her knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Chris moaned. Then he noticed something.

Chris moved back up to the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself -- no company except bored people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a million piles of junk and cat shit in your house. Chris would know.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Chris's.

It winked.

Chris stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake, tilting his head in curiosity.

The snake jerked its head toward Barb, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Chris a look that said quite plainly:

"Did you have to make that bitch do it twice?"

"All I wanted was for you to do something," Chris murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "Surely you misunderstood."

The snake hissed angrily.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Chris asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Chris peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Is it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:

This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Guess I'll have to find out myself, huh?"

Chris then turned around and shouted to his parents:

"MOM! DAD! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Bob and Barb came sprinting toward them as fast as they could.

"Out of the way, kid, or you'll get poisoned to death!" Barb screeched, tossing Chris headfirst into a frog tank. Caught by surprise, Chris fell right through the glass. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Barb was leaning smugly against the glass, the next, she had leapt back with howls of horror.

Bob gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Chris could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... you're an assssshole but you've done good, kiddo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself bought Barb a bottle of wine while he apologized over and over again. Barb was sobbing crocodile tears (which had nothing to do with the fact that Barb had tried to coerce Chris into sticking his duck into the crocodile exhibit to set up a lawsuit) and screaming about how the zoo was unsafe and threatening to sue. As far as Bob had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except make another angry hiss at Barb as it passed, but by the time they were all back in the car, Barb was telling them how she was going to tell the judge it had nearly bitten off Chris's leg. But worst of all, for Chris at least, was Barb calming down enough to say, "Chris was talking to it, weren't you, Christian?"

"Well... I..."

"Boy, I TOLD you those damned cartoons aren't real! Animals don't talk, dumbass! And YOU, Barbara! What the FUCK were you thinking throwing Chris through a window?!" Instead of waiting for a reply, he immediately ran out the door and came back with a gallon of tequila.

Chris lay awake in bed, trying to fumble an accessory onto his Game Boy to light up the screen when Bob walked in, blackout drunk.

"Listen, kid, dumbass, whatever your name is," Bob slurred, "I don't like you, an' you *hic* don't like me, but I don't like yer mother-"

"I like her," Chris replied, "She gives me more things than you do and she does yell at me to lose weight or any such thing."

"Well, we'll hafta *hic* settle this like men," Bob said with a belch. "Puddup yer dukes!"

Chris reflexively whipped out the NES zapper he kept under his pillow and fired. A bolt of lightning shot from the zapper and into Bob's chest. He was thrown through the door, stumbled to the stairs, fell to the bottom and passed out.


End file.
